Darwinism
by Adara-chan67
Summary: Sequel to The Dead Ought Sleep Forever. Apparently, Dean has more issues than he thought. That's why he's sitting alone at a bar at four in the afternoon, feeling sorry for himself, until someone comes along to straighten him out. Sam's in it, I promise!


_Disclaimer: I don't own De Boyz or the song "How Soon Is Now" by Love Spit Love. I do, however, own ONE character! That's right, count it! One!_

_Characters: Dean and Sam Winchester, one OC_

_Setting: Sequel to "The Dead Ought Sleep Forever" and post "Hunted"_

_Warnings: Alcohol, but no unseemly behavior_

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Darwinism

**I am the son and the heir**

**Of a shyness that is criminally vulgar.**

**I'm the son and heir**

**Of nothing in particular.**

Each member of the human race has a unique way of coping. Some cry, some get angry, some sit and stare blankly at white ceilings until their eyes glaze over and cross themselves and make the person look inarguably stupid.

But there is one thing that the vast majority of depressed and dealing people have in common, and that is the consumption of alcohol and where they do that consuming.

Now of course, not _everyone_ you'd find in a bar is trying to deal with something. A decent number of them really are just looking for a good time. But those people are not the focus of our story.

No, the real focus of our story is a man who falls neatly into the first group—that is to say, a seriously bummed man—and so he is the one we will focus on.

**You shut your mouth.**

**How can you say I go about things the wrong way?**

**I am human and I need to be loved,**

**Just like everybody else does.**

Dean Winchester sat in a chair at the bar, sullenly running a finger around the rim of an empty glass. The bar was only about half full this early, so he could get drunk in peace.

The problem with this was that there was no one to stop him from indulging in drink until he "indulged" himself into a coma—or over the edge of a cliff.

Dean looked around him, greatly amused with the fact that everything had begun going fuzzy. By his estimation, in approximately four drinks he would reach his goal of becoming so drop-dead blind drunk that he entirely forgot his own name.

His own name and all that it entailed being the _problem_ and all…

Dean's slightly-deadened mind was roused a bit from its self-pity by a sudden presence in the chair next to him, and he glanced over when an irritated—and decidedly feminine—voice growled, "Gimme a beer. And don't skimp. Fill the damn glass."

He looked over with raised eyebrows, and the woman—who would have been stunning if not for the scowl—glared at him. "What?"

"Uh…nothing," Dean said.

She rolled her eyes. "You're gonna have to do better than that. Yeah, I'm angry. You would be, too, if you'd just been royally screwed over by a thieving bastard who told you he loved you and then turned around and cleaned you out and headed for Texas. And you_ really_ don't want to try and stop me from ranting, so you can just shut your mouth right now," she added, dangerously enough that Dean obeyed, changing his question mid sentence.

"Well, if we're gonna be drownin' our sorrows together, then I guess we'd better at least exchange names."

"Why? Chances are we won't remember each other anyway." Then she shrugged. "Well, if it actually matters to you, I'm Kaci."

Dean grinned, unable to suppress a little spark of triumph. "M'names Dean."

"Huh. Had a boyfriend with that name once. I'm sure the little ferret's still hiding from the cops somewhere, hoarding all that swindling money."

"…Interesting measuring stick you use to pick your guys."

She glowered. "Hey, in case you didn't notice, you're here too, dude—and for a lot longer than me, apparently."

Dean raised his empty glass in ironic salute and said, "That's me. Family drunkard and His Royal Highness the Screw-Up."

"Oh, so _that's_ why you're here," Kaci said knowingly. "Pity-party. Hey, calm down, I'm likewise guilty, remember?"

Dean's momentary anger ebbed at her earnest face, and he raised his glass again, this time at the bartender. "Hey, gimme another, and put hers on my tab."

Kaci scoffed. "Yeah, like you can afford it. Hey, barkeep, ignore the lump's attempt at chivalry. I'm buyin'."

Dean wanted very badly to be irritated, but the free booze that came sliding to a stop in front of him negated that impulse, and he ended up thanking her instead as he took a sip.

"Okay. So. Spill," Kaci said. "I mean, there has to be a reason you're doing this at four in the afternoon. I told you mine, you tell me yours."

"What makes you think it's any of your business?"

Kaci shrugged again. "It isn't," she said frankly. "But you're never gonna see me again, and isn't that what drinking buddies are for?"

"…Ya know, I must've had more than I thought, 'cause that actually made sense."

Kaci grinned winsomely. "Wait 'til I get going. Now talk, Romeo."

**I am the son and the heir**

**Of a shyness that is criminally vulgar.**

**I'm the son and heir**

**Of nothing in particular.**

_+Flashback+_

"_Dean, will you please just _talk_ to me?!"_

_Dean glared at his brother over the knife he was sharpening. "Stop harping, Sam. I'm not changing my mind about this."_

_Sam, however, just glared right back, unfazed, and Dean groaned inwardly—his brother would not be easily put off this time. _

"_No, man, I'm not gonna let you push me away this time."_

_Dean rolled his eyes. "God, Sammy, could you _be_ any more…femme? Don't you think you're being a little overdramatic?"_

"_Maybe, but that can't change facts, and the fact is, you've been stomping around grumping like an eighty-year-old man for a week now. You've been moody and angry and distracted, and now you're not letting me find a _job_! What is _wrong_ with you?"_

_Dean's teeth clenched, and he looked back down at the knife without answering._

_But Sam just kept talking, undeterred. "What, is it because of this?' he snapped, holding up his heavily-plastered arm in its sling. His jaw tightened with the pain of movement, but he visibly shrugged it off. "Because I've been hurt before, Dean—"_

Not like this.

"—_And okay, so I can't really handle a gun or a knife or much of anything right now—"_

Not your fault. Mine.

"—_But that's okay. I don't have to fight. It doesn't mean we can't still save people."_

Except I'm not sure I want to save people anymore.

"_Or is it Dad?" Sam asked, continuing to push._

_Dean's head snapped up again. "Shut up, Sam," he said flatly._

_She looked at him for a moment, then said quietly, "Oh, so that's it. That's what's spooking you."_

"_Sam."_

"_You've been acting like this because in some twisted way you feel like you killed Dad a second time—"_

You didn't see his face when I shot him.

"—_And since you already blame yourself for our _real_ dad's death—"_

Please don't make me think about that.

"—_Even killing something that just _looked_ like him was enough to make you snap."_

Sam, please, you don't know how thin the line is that you're walking.

"_And now you're nervous about hunting again, and it's making you ticked off at everything," Sam continued, seemingly talking more to himself now, as if by speaking aloud he could just magically solve the problem. "—And—"_

"_Shut _up_, Sam!" Dean said loudly, surging to his feet._

_Sam obeyed, looking taken aback. "What…?"_

"_You heard me. You're talking about things that you don't understand, and you're wrong—"_

At least mostly.

"—_So just do everyone a favor and shut your mouth. I'm not going to 'share' with you and I'm not gonna tell you how I feel—"_

Because I can't.

"—_So just _leave it alone_."_

_Sam stared at him, visibly shaken and baffled. "Dean, I…"_

"_Don't, Sam. Do _not_ say you're sorry, 'cause I'm sick of hearing it."_

You don't have anything to be sorry for.

"_Dean, I know how you feel, but—"_

_Dean shook his head and said quietly, "No, Sam, you really don't. You have no idea how I feel."_

_And then he got his jacket and silently left the motel room._

_+End Flashback+_

**There's a club if you'd like to go.**

**You could meet someone who really loves you.**

**So you go, and you stand on your own, and you leave on your own,**

**And you go home, and you cry and you want to die.**

"Huh. That's…interesting," Kaci said thoughtfully, sipping her drink as Dean finished a much-abridged version of his and Sam's argument.

"What?" Dean asked slowly, recognizing the look on her face—Sam often wore exactly the same one whenever he was worrying at a puzzle.

"Well…okay, I have no sibs of my own, but I know people who do, so I feel completely justified in asking. Why do you care so much about one little disagreement with your brother? Isn't that…you know…normal?"

Dean took a drink and shook his head. "Nah, it's not the same. Sam and I are…different from most brothers."

"Oh, God, _please_ don't tell me you're…"

"Don't go there. Don't even _think_ about it," Dean snapped.

Kaci held up her hands in mock-surrender. "Okay, okay, not thinking it! But you gotta admit, the way you said that…"

"Look, it's not _like_…that," Dean said, voice heavy with irritation. "We're just close, okay?"

Kaci simply raised an eyebrow, and Dean groaned theatrically and lowered his head until it touched the cool wood of the bar.

"Oh, God, you're gonna make me get into this now, aren't you?" he murmured, his voice muffled. Then, suddenly, he straightened and said, "Fine. Listen up, 'cause I'm not repeating myself."

"I'm listening," Kaci said, looking far too pleased with herself.

"Okay, so our mom died when we were kids, right? And our dad…worked…pretty much 24/7. We changed states about once a month, so neither one of us had friends. Growing up like that doesn't leave many options, and we really didn't have much choice about getting closer than normal. We look out for each other, ya know? And now that our dad's gone, too, he's all I've got left. Plus he's already left once—_really_ left. Ditched us and hopped ten _states_ left. So doesn't that explain why I hate fighting with him?"

"Huh…" Kaci said, taking another drink. "Well, that's lame," she said decidedly after swallowing.

Dean raised his arms and slapped them back to the bar. "I pour my heart out to you and this is what I get?"

Kaci shrugged. "Hey, I call it like I see it, and that is…_lame_. I mean, seriously, Dean, if you guys are as close as all that, then what the hell are you doing _here_? You should be talking this out!"

"Okay, see, you had an edge before—right up 'til you said _that_, forever sealing your fate as a girl. I don't _talk_, sister. We don't _do_ that. It's not…_manly_."

Kaci rolled his eyes. "Okay, first of all, I never claimed to be anything other than female. Secondly, all that 'manly' talk is just…moronic." Then she sighed heavily. "But if you insist, let's see if we can't make the whole idea…a little more up your alley. Eh?"

"Um…excuse me?"

Kaci sighed. "Okay, let me dumb it down for you, Alfalfa. I'm talking a bet here. We play a game of pool. I win, you go resolve this…snit."

Dean turned slowly in his chair, studying her. "Okay, let's just pretend for a second that I actually planned to play you. What if I win—which, admit it, is much more likely?"

Kaci shrugged. "Yeah, you're probably right. But hey, what've I got to lose?"

"Cash?"

"Nope, sorry. I don't part with my money easy. You're lucky I took pity on you enough to buy that glass. But I'll tell you what. If you win, I promise not to say another word about you being lame. I will just watch you get trashed and maybe be there to do drunken karaoke with you."

Dean thought some more.

"Okay, you're on. But you can't cry when you lose. That kind of thing makes me very uncomfortable."

**When you say it's gonna happen now,**

**When exactly do you mean?**

**See, I've already waited too long,**

**And all my hope is gone.**

Dean was still seething by the time he got back to the motel—seething and resolving firmly never again to talk to girls in bars.

Because Kaci had hustled him, plain and simple. And okay, so it wasn't like they were playing for money, and she was absolutely serious about not wanting cash, but still. It was just the _principle_ of the thing! He had been _hustled!_ It didn't even matter to him that a chick had beaten him—he'd _never_ been hustled!

And worst of all, _now_ he had to go and _have a talk_ with Sam, since Dean Winchester never went back on his word, even if there was no one to know.

_Damn it!_

Though his anger _was_ fortunate, now that he thought about it—it was the only thing that kept him sober enough to drive…

Sam was lying on his bed when he walked in, flipping channels. He looked up when the door closed and murmured, "Hey."

Dean winced—Sam sounded exhausted. How had he not picked up on that earlier?

_Oh, maybe 'cause you were too busy yelling at him…_

"Hey," was all he could think to say in reply as he walked past Sam and into the room.

He had planned to spend a few minutes in there, avoiding the awkwardness, but the open pill bottle out on the sink changed _that_ plan rather quickly, and in a couple seconds he was back and asking, "Sammy, you hurting?"

"Well, yeah," Sam replied calmly. "Why'd you ask?"

"Uh…'cause you've been popping pills again."

"That's why the doc gave them to me. Aren't they in my bag?"

"No, they're in the bathroom. Where you left them."

"Oh. Sorry. Could you bring them out with you when you're done so I don't forget them?" Sam asked, already turning back to the TV.

Dean gritted his teeth and tried not to be annoyed at Sam's distant attitude. After all, he'd been the one to bring it on—didn't Sam deserve to be mad at him?

"Yeah, okay," he murmured, turning to reenter the bathroom.

He took longer in the shower than normal, trying to gather up his courage—and his patience. It took a while, but eventually he felt that he might be able to manage a talk of up to five minutes without screaming, and he felt fairly ready to confront his brother.

"Hey, Sammy?" he asked as he sat down on his bed after dressing and tossing his towel over a chair. He used the old name deliberately, hoping that somehow it would make Sam more receptive.

"It's Sam," Sam said flatly, changing the channel again.

Dean felt a flicker of a smirk cross his face, but it disappeared quickly. "Fine, _Sam_. Now could you stop being mad at me for two seconds?"

Sam looked over at him in genuine surprise. "What're you talking about? I'm not mad at you."

Dean rolled his eyes—of _course_ he would have to be stubborn about this. "Sam."

"No, seriously, I'm not!" Sam protested.

"Sam, you've barely said two words to me since I walked in here," Dean said, with a bitter inward chuckle at how girlish he sounded right now.

Now it was Sam's turn to roll his eyes. "Dean, you just spent six and a half hours at the bar. It's obvious even from here how much you drank. When you left you'd just finished yelling at me. I'm beat and I was just trying to stay out of your way."

"…Oh. Well…uh…thanks," Dean said loudly.

Sam shrugged. "Don't thank me. I was gonna pick our…conversation…back up in the morning, anyway."

Dean didn't quite know what to think about that, but as Sam started to turn back to the TV, he found himself blurting in a rush, "SamI'msorry."

Sam paused for a second, and then sat up slowly, letting the remote drop to the bed. "Does that mean you're ready to talk about this now?"

"...Yes," Dean said firmly, more to himself than Sam.

Sam couldn't seem to resist. "What, lose a bet?"

"Uh…yeah, actually."

Sam seemed to ponder whether or not to question that or not. Then he shrugged. "Eh, I'll take what I can get." Then, all of a sudden, he turned serious. "So tell me, Dean. What is bugging you so much?"

Dean spared a thought to hope that the next time Kaci needed to sit she would find a cactus to do it on, and then he started talking.

"Okay, so I'll admit that you were right about one thing. Part of this is about the 'shifter. But not in the way you think. I don't feel guilty for killing something with Dad's face. It spooked me, but I _know_ it wasn't him."

"So what's the problem?" Sam asked.

"Shut up, I'm getting there. The thing is…Sam, when I actually shot him, I didn't see him as a shapeshifter. In my eyes, he was just…Dad. It was just for a second, but at the moment I actually pulled the trigger, in my mind…I was shooting Dad."

"…Oh…"

"Yeah. I'm just…I'm so _angry_, Sam. I'm so angry with him, for leaving us, and for saddling us with all this, and for not _explaining_ it. He always trained us to take responsibility, and then he took the easy way out and left his kinds running around in the dark. I just…part of me hates him for being…_weak_…and then the other part hates _that_ part for even _thinking_ of Dad like that. Because it's not true, Sam, it's _not_."

The last part came out sounding so desperate that Dean was immediately ashamed of himself, but Sam's voice was unruffled when he replied.

"No, Dean, it isn't true. Yes, it was wrong of Dad to leave us with this. And yes, he should have told you more."

He didn't mention that it might've been nice for someone to let _him_ in on the little secret, and Dean was profoundly grateful.

"But _he was no weak_, Dean. I mean, to keep going even after he found out about…me…and to keep hunting even knowing what he did—how _could_ he be weak?"

Dean smiled a little. "I almost expect you to burst into song."

"Quiet, you," Sam replied with a quick flash of his old grin. "But listen, Dean. You have got to stop thinking that just because he's gone, you have no right to be mad. Be angry—with me, with him, with the whole damn _world_ if you have to. If that's how you feel, then don't try to shove it aside like you've been doing. You told me once that letting it burn over the long haul would kill me, so you have to let it out. If that means I have to be your punching bag a little longer, then I will be, and happily. I haven't exactly been fair to you since you told me, anyways. But just…stop feeling _bad_ over it! I don't hold your temper against you—just like you don't hold mine against me—and neither would he. Okay?"

Dean looked down at the bed for a moment, then looked up at Sam and said, "I'm sorry I hit you that time with Gordon."

Sam rolled his eyes.

"What? Just getting it out of my system. Hit the light, Sammy."

"It's only nine-thirty."

"Yeah, and you're worn out. Go to sleep, man."

So Sam turned off the light and the TV, and the room went dark.

And silent, until the younger Winchester's voice floated out of the dark. "That's not all, is it?" When Dean didn't answer, Sam said, "Okay. I wont' push anymore. G'night, Dean."

Sam must have been more tired than either of them had known, because within minutes his breathing had evened out in sleep.

Dean, though, wasn't nearly so fortunate. He laid awake for hours more, too restless to sleep.

He was still feeling guilty, but now for a whole other reason. He didn't know why, but he wished he had told Sam the rest of what was bothering him, gotten it all out in the open. But…there was just so much…so much he couldn't say.

Because right now, Dean Winchester was terrified.

He was terrified of himself, and terrified for his brother. He didn't know how, but he knew they were running out of time. It wouldn't be long before Sam's destiny would begin to come true, and if Dean didn't find a way out of it _soon_…

The two remaining Winchesters were in the midst of a battle here. It was survival of the fittest, and he and Sam were losing.

And even though he would never tell Sam, _that_ was really the center of it all. The real reason Dean was so on edge, the real reason he didn't want to hunt anymore…

The real reason he didn't care as much about saving people as he used to.

Actually, the truth was, there was really only one person he was really interested in saving now.

Dean turned over on his side, studying Sam's outline in the dark, and silently he renewed his vow once again.

_I _will_ save you, Sammy. For us…and for him._

**Some day.**

**Not one in particular.**

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_Author's Note: Well, there it is—my first ever fic written by request. I wasn't planning to do a sequel, but one reviewer asked me to, so I pulled this off the top of my head and wrote it. I hope it meets expectations._

_Please review!_


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